


Good Directions

by Eastmava



Category: Crash Pad (2017), Logan Lucky (2017), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: (It's Stensland of course there's crying), (more comfort than hurt), Crying, Implied Family Issues, Kissing, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, hand holding, kylux adjacent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-24 05:14:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15623331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eastmava/pseuds/Eastmava
Summary: 'The thought makes him frown, then shake his head to remind himself not to get twisted up in knots over some city boy who’s going to skip out of town just as soon as he’s done with lunch, that he’ll never see those pretty green eyes ever again, or that sweet, sad, just a little lost looking smile, that little startled look Stensland gets whenever Clyde is nice to him, like he’s not expecting it, like he isn’t used to having kindness offered to him (but if he stayed, maybe he’d get used to it, come to learn that Clyde likes doing nice things for skinny redheads with cute accents, except he’s not, he isn’t, he wouldn’t-)'Stensland gets lost in West Virginia.





	Good Directions

**Author's Note:**

> I've finally succumbed to the Kylux adjacent pairings. These boys are just too sweet and lonely and I really need them to be happy. (This fic was also supposed to be, like, 6k words, TOPS. BUT HERE WE ARE.)
> 
> This fic was inspired by the song 'Good Directions" by Billy Currington. The only radio station that comes in clearly at work is country, and this song gave me all the Clyde/Stensland feels. It's recommended listening for this fic.
> 
> A very, very special thanks to obsessions-and-dreams/frapandfurious. She did so much hand holding and cheer leading and encouragement that there's no way this fic would exist without her. She also pointed out in the kindest way possible that I kept referring to Boston as being in Maryland and not Massachusetts. I went to public school, y'all.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!

Stensland is finally forced to admit he’s lost.

 

It had seemed like a great idea at the time, getting off the main interstate and take the winding back roads through the hills of West Virginia. Despite having lived in the States for sixteen years Stensland has still never felt fully comfortable on American roads, too many cars and too fast. It was one of the appeals of Seattle, public transportation meant he didn't need to drive. But condors have to spread their wings, and a road trip had felt like a great plan, because even if he dreaded the destination, maybe the sights along the way there would make the trip worthwhile.

 

It had continued to feel like a great idea, until two hours ago, when he had looked at the map and realized he had no idea where he was and even less idea how to get where he was going.

 

Stensland is creeping along slowly, one eye on the gas gauge that's been steadily creeping toward the big red ‘E’ as he carefully navigates the sharp curves of the road when he finally sees the first sign of civilization.

 

The building looks rickety and old, and he wonders if the unlit neon sign declaring ‘Duck Tape’ is an accurate description of what’s holding the building together. It looks abandoned, in the way all bars do at eleven-thirty in the morning, except for the two cars in the parking lot.

 

As he turns in one of the cars blows past him, something small and sporty, with a woman behind the wheel driving way too fast and taking the turn out of the parking lot with a screech of tires.

 

At least there's still a truck in the parking lot and a light flickers through the windows, so there's still someone there who can hopefully give him directions.

 

“Did ya need somethin’, Mel?” Clyde yells from the back at the sound of the door closing, sighing as he lays his paperwork back down and hits the ‘Pause” button on the remote and heads out of the office.

 

“Yes?” Stensland calls cautiously back in the direction the voice came from. “But I'm probably not who you're expecting.” There's a pause of a few seconds before a man walks out from the back. He's tall and muscular, with waves of dark hair framing a handsome face pulled into a frown.

 

“We don't open ‘til six,” Clyde says gruffly, looking at the disheveled stranger standing in his bar.

 

“Oh no,” Stensland rushes to assure, holding his hands up and taking a stumbling step back. He hadn't thought he was doing anything wrong, but the man seems oddly aggressive and he's learned to be cautious about muscular men in bars. “I don't, that is, I'm not looking for a drink. I just need directions.”

 

“Directions?” Clyde asks, a note of surprise in his voice. He finally looks at the stranger, at his wrinkled clothes and the halo of red hair fluffed around his head, except for the parts stuck to his temples with sweat. The redhead glances back to the door and and Clyde realizes he's looming, drawing himself up to every inch of his height to intimidate, because usually when someone stops in before opening they're hoping to convince him to pour them a drink, and arguments about state laws and selling liquor on Sundays do nothing, but intimidation usually does.

 

Clyde lets his shoulders drop, because everything about the man says weary traveler and not a drunk in need of a drink, and tries not to feel guilty when he flinches when Clyde takes a step closer. “Sure. I can give you directions. Where ya headin’? Got a map?”

  
It’s a struggle for Stensland to keep from squirming under the scrutiny of the man. He’s very handsome, he notices when he finally loses the edge of intimidation, shoulders relaxing and his hardset expression smoothing out, with a kind, open face that has the faintest of lines feathering at the corners of his eyes.

 

“Yes!” The Stensland practically squeaks he’s so excited, and digs the folded and refolded and dogeared map from his pocket. “Thank you! I don’t know what I would’ve done if I hadn’t found you.” Clyde frowns as he slaps the map down on the bar and he falters. “What?”

 

“Nothin’,” he says. “Just, most people don’t use these anymore. Everyone just uses their phones.”

 

“You asked!” Stensland defends himself, suddenly upset. Seattle was an expensive city and so what if he couldn’t afford his phone bill, it doesn’t mean he’s a failure, but he still doesn’t appreciate being _judged_ for it, especially not by someone who asked if he had a map.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Clyde mumbles, hand held up in surrender, because he hadn’t meant to offend the man and maybe it’s just weariness but he thinks there might be some tears glistening in the corner of those green eyes. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Just don’t see many of these. I like a map myself. You don’t have to worry ‘bout losing service. That’s usually what happens when people get lost round here. These hills,” he gestures around them, presumably meaning the rolling landscape that had almost made Stensland motion sick sometimes driving through it and not the worn smooth wood of the bar.

 

“Thank you,” Stensland says, and tries to keep a sniffle out of his voice, because he really can’t afford to offend the only person around who can help him out.

 

“You’re not far off from the interstate. Which way you headin’? North or south?”

 

Stensland blinks. “Massachusetts?” The word comes out like a question. He isn’t great with directions, and is too embarrassed to admit that that’s why he’s in this mess.

 

Clyde looks at him. “North, then,” he replies, slowly.

 

“Right.”

 

They stare at each other for long moments, the silence hanging around them with more weight that the humidity that lingers in the air before Clyde clears his throat and looks away glancing down at the map. “Ok, so, Massachusetts. Best bet is 81. Easy enough to get to from here. Left out of the parking lot, ‘bout two miles down you’ll see an intersection with a caution light. Left at the caution light. Half a mile down from that you’ll see the signs for 81. Shouldn’t take ya more than ten, fifteen minutes.” Clyde glances up at the stranger, who still looks a little lost, and offers a smile. The redhead looks wilted, like a flower that needs a drink, and still a little bit like he might cry. Clyde clears his throat again. “Where in Massachusetts you headin’?”

 

“Boston.”

 

“Right,” he says, nodding, and brings a hand up to trace along the map. ”So, get on 81, then, probably bout 100 miles, hop on 78. Follow that,” he explains, his finger drawing the path on the map, “to I-95. You’re gonna end up on the New Jersey Turnpike, don’t envy you that.”

 

“Damn,” Stensland announces, cutting the man off at that revelation. “American roads are already horrible. I’m not even _from_ America and I know how bad that road is.” Clyde gives him a sympathetic smile and, exhausted even more just by the thought of more driving and competing with angry drivers on the road, Stensland hoists himself up on a bar stool, leaning over the map so he can better see what the man’s telling him. He sighs when he realizes how much farther he has to go. “Do you have a pen? So I can sorta mark my route? I don’t know if I trust myself to remember all that.”

 

“Sure,” Clyde agrees, looking up from the map. He’s startled by how close they are, able to catch a whiff of sweat layered over soap. This close he can make out the fainest smattering of freckles across his cheeks and nose, the soft gold of eyelashes coming to rest on dark skin beneath his green eyes.Clyde only realizes he’s staring when the man looks up and their eyes meet, knocking him out of his trance with the embarrassment at getting caught. Getting caught _doing what_ he refuses to think about. The man may be cute, if a bit scruffy, and the tangle of his hair looks perpetual and not just a result of too long on the road, but this stranger is going to walk out the door and never give Clyde a second thought, and it’d be for the best if he could do the same. “Pen, right,” he says, more to remind himself than anything, and twists to grab one from behind the bar before holding it out.

 

Stensland gratefully takes the pen and then blushes with embarrassment when as soon as he does his stomach lets out a growling roar of hunger. “Oh God, I’m sorry!” He apologizes, feeling his face heat in a way that can’t be blamed on the heat. “It’s just, dinner was a long time ago. I’ve been driving and, oh, is there a gas station nearby? I need to fill up and maybe I can grab something to eat.”

 

“There’s a station right by the turn off. But, you don’t want to eat anything from there. Take my word for it.”

 

Stensland grimaces. “Then any place I could grab something?” He swallows his pride, and says it. “Something cheap?” He doesn’t want to admit that he’s only got so much money and it’s probably just barely going to get him to Boston. He’s been surviving on chips and has been refilling the same bottle of water at rest stops since he started driving three days ago.

 

Clyde looks at the man, at the wrinkled clothes he’s pretty clearly been sleeping in, the way he shuffles his feet back and forth and can't quite meet Clyde’s eyes, and recognizes someone who’s lost and in need of some kindness. “Well,” he starts slowly, trying to figure out how to phrase his offer. He knows not everyone was raised to be offended by the offer of charity like they were, but he still understands pride. “If you weren’t in much of a hurry Mellie just dropped off lunch and she always gives me way too much.”

 

Stensland starts to protest, but his stomach growls again, and he sighs as he presses his palm to it, feeling the soft give of his belly beneath his shirt. “Are you sure? I’m not as pathetic as I seem right now, I swear. You don’t have to-”

 

“I want to,” Clyde promises, and is relieved when the man’s shoulders relax.

 

“Thank you,” he says. Finally, something is going his way. “I’m Stensland, by the way,” he says when the man starts leading him back to the door he came out of earlier.

 

The man blinks at the name, but doesn’t comment on the unusualness of it. “Clyde,” he offers, and holds out a hand. It’s only then that Stensland realizes Clyde’s other hand is a prosthetic.

 

But it doesn’t matter, because when he takes the one Clyde holds out to him it’s warm and dry in his, the fingers reaching past his skinny wrist, the palm broad and meaty, and when they finally let them drop after what seems like just a little too long their fingers graze, and a shiver runs down Stensland’s spine.  

 

“Just, uh, take a seat on the couch,” Clyde tells him with a gesture to the worn looking furniture pushed up against a wall in the cramped office as he scrambles to scrape the papers scattered across the low coffee table in front of it into a pile, embarrassed by the messy state of the small room and looks around to find a place to drop it, but the desk is covered too. With a sigh he gently places the stack of invoices on the ground by the desk and picks up the aluminum pail Mellie transported lunch to him in and turns back, only to feel the tips of his ears burn when he realizes Stensland is staring at the small television set and looking at the movie paused on the screen.

 

Clyde had forgotten what he had been doing when Stensland had first walked in, but as he looks at Stensland looking at Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan on the screen he fumbles around for the remote. It takes his suddenly clumsy fingers long seconds to find the power button while he trips over his words. “I was just, well, that is-”

 

“I love _Sleepless in Seattle_ ,” Stensland sighs, right as Clyde finally smashes the correct button and the screen flickers off with a buzz.

 

“You do?” He asks, surprised, and turns to look at Stensland, who is still staring wistfully at the now black screen.

 

“Yeah. Doesn’t everyone? I mean, sure, some guys think it’s strange to like stuff like that.” He frowns and tries to push thoughts of Grady and his version of manliness out of his thoughts. “But I like them. Isn’t that what everyone wants? To just find someone to be with? Someone to spend your life with? Someone who wants to hold your hand?” Stensland has to pause to swallow that same familiar ache that he’s worked hard to put behind him but never quite seems to go away, then remembers that he always rambles too much and it’s off putting, and glances to Clyde to give him a chance to talk. Except Clyde is staring down at his hands, mouth pressed into a hard line, looking unhappy.

 

_Way to run your mouth off and fuck up again, Stensland._

 

Clyde doesn’t look like the sort of man who watches romantic comedies and sighs wistfully with longing when Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks finally meet, or sniffles into their arm when Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr finally work things out.

 

“Not that, not that I think _you_ would, I mean, it’s probably your wife’s, right?” He babbles, voice going thin as his apology rambles on.

 

Clyde stares down at his hands laying in his lap as Stensland stumbles out an apology. He knows Stensland didn’t mean anything by it, but it had stung at the mention of holding hands when he remembered that no one wanted to hold his, no one wanted someone who couldn’t hold them while they lay in bed.

 

“Clyde?” Stensland calls out tentatively when Clyde just keeps looking down, not reacting. He reaches out, hesitates, then brushes his fingers over the back of Clyde’s hand, the flesh one. Clyde jerks, and his hand almost draws back before resettling on his knee, right beneath Stensland’s, and he finally turns to look at Stensland with wide, sad eyes.

 

“‘M’sorry,” he mumbles.

 

“Everything alright?”

 

“Yeah. Yes, sorry. I wasn’t listening.” He offers Stensland a smile, thinks it’s probably a sad broken thing, but it’s worth it, because Stensland returns it a hundredfold, bright and beaming.

 

_A face made for smiling_ , Clyde thinks, then shakes the thought away, because they’re going to eat lunch and then Stensland is going to leave and all Clyde will have is the memories of those smiles.

 

“Doesn’t matter,” he says with a laugh, his hand finally sliding away from Clyde’s. He curls his fingers toward his palm, trying to hold onto just a little bit of the warmth of Clyde that had made them tingle from those few too short moments. “I was just saying I’m sure I got it all wrong. That’s probably your wife’s movie, right?”

 

“Naw, I’m not married,” Clyde tells him. The remote is still clenched in his hand and he sets it down on the table to give himself something to do. “It’s, it’s mine. The movie. I like it,” he says with a shrug that is nowhere near as casual as he was aiming for. “Just, round here, some folks don’t think men should watch stuff like that.”

 

“It’s not just here,” Stensland tells him, unhappy. “Which is stupid. People should like what they like, you know? It shouldn’t make someone less of a man if he likes romance, or pink.” He sighs, and let’s himself relax back against the couch. “It’s actually why I moved to Seattle. It just seemed so, so _grand_. Like I’d go, and I’d meet the right person because of fate, and we’d fall in love and my life would be happy, right? Just like in the movie. And nothing else would matter, because I was with the person I was supposed to be with, it’d all work out.”

 

“That sounds nice,” Clyde tells him softly. “You’re from Seattle, then? So you like it there? What’s it like?”

 

Stensland shakes his head. “Lonely,” he finally confesses, the word barely a whisper. “Nothing worked out like I thought it would. Not like a movie.”

 

Clyde’s chest aches, and it’s only when he reaches up to rub it that he realizes it isn’t an actual hurt, just a phantom twinge of pain because he knows what it’s like to feel that alone. He doesn’t remember much from when he first got back,just hazy memories of thoughts fogged with painkillers and a pain that no drug could completely dull, but he does still remember the first night after his surgery, when he had cried into his pillow, unable to even look at his arm. One of the nurses had tried to up his dosage of painkillers, but he couldn’t find the words to tell her that he wasn’t crying because it hurt, he was crying because no one was ever going to want him now.

 

He can’t find anything to say, so he just knocks his knee into Stensland’s and opens up the lunch Mellie dropped off. There’s fried chicken that’s still warm and buttery, flaky biscuits. He pulls out a thermos that he expects to be coffee but when he unscrews the lid is hit with the sugary sweet scent that can be nothing but chilled sweet tea. Stensland perks up as soon as the smells of good food hit him, his nose twitching like a dog with a scent in a way that Clyde finds unbearably adorable, and he has to excuse himself to grab some plates and glasses just to slip out, waving aside Stensland’s offer to help.

 

When Clyde steps back into the office Stensland looks up guiltily, a half eaten biscuit in his hand and what Clyde would guess is the other half tucked into his cheek. He mumbles what’s probably supposed to be an apology around his mouthful of food before swallowing it. “Sorry,” he apologizes again. “It’s really good.”

 

“I’ll tell Mellie you liked it. She’ll be happy.”

 

“Who’s Mellie? Girlfriend? You said you didn’t have a wife.”

 

Clyde shakes his head as he sets out the paper plates and napkins. “My sister,” he explains, setting the glasses down with a clink. “She feels like she has ta’ take care of us.”

 

“Us?”

 

“My brother and me. And Sadie. Jimmy’s daughter.”

 

“That's nice,” he says, and tries to keep from sounding mournful. “Family’s important.”

 

“Is everything okay?” Clyde asks, and apparently he wasn’t as successful at keeping his voice steady as he wanted to be.

 

“Great!” He chirps, and stuffs another bite of biscuit in his mouth to keep from saying more. Thankfully the food is so good and he’s so hungry he just keeps steadily tucking it away, for once not feeling the need to fill the silence with words, even if Clyde does keep tossing him worried glances that he feels increasingly guilty about not answering. Clyde’s been nothing but nice to him when he didn’t have to be. It’s not something Stensland is used to.

 

Clyde frowns as Stensland stuffs food in his face instead of answering, but it’s not his place to push. He remembers too well sitting in the overly plush chair in the therapist’s office for his mandatory appointments while she told him that talking about it would make him feel better. It never did, and all he took from those sessions was the certainty that he never wanted to tell someone that talking about it would make it better, because he hated lying.

 

Instead, he just pours them glasses of sweet tea and pushes one toward Stensland.

 

Stensland has eaten two biscuits and a piece of chicken and is working his way through a second when he finally stops to take a drink. The glass Clyde had pushed toward his is sweating in the West Virginia heat and the ice keeps clinking against the sides of the glass. He’s never quite understood Americans and iced tea, tea is supposed to be hot, thank you very much, but he’s really not in a position to turn down handouts, so he doesn’t say anything as he takes it.

 

Except whatever it is, it’s not tea.

 

It’s barely hit his tongue before he’s overwhelmed with the sweetness of it, even the small sip he took making his teeth hurt, and rude or not he spits it back into the glass and slams it down on the chipped top of the coffee table and pushes it away from him. “What _is that?_ ”

 

“It’s sweet tea.”

 

“That is not tea. I’m Irish, I know tea. Whatever that is, it’s not tea. That’s dessert, not a drink.”

 

Clyde blinks at him for a long second, and Stensland wilts under the look. Clyde has been kind, has given him directions and food and rest, hasn’t pushed when Stensland clearly doesn’t want to talk about things, and Stensland has just insulted him. He opens his mouth to apologize. “I’m sor-”

 

Except Clyde throws his head back and laughs, a great deep, roaring thing, that echoes joy around the tiny room, and Stensland can’t help but join in.

 

“You’ve never had sweet tea before, have ya?”

 

Stensland makes a face that has Clyde laughing again. He’s gone through a lot of bad things in his life, has embarrassed himself a lot, but this time isn’t so bad, not if it makes Clyde laugh.

 

“It’s doesn’t even taste like tea. It’s just sugar.”

 

“Yup,” Clyde agrees. “One pound of sugar for every gallon of tea. Just the way our mama made it.”

 

“Blech.”

 

Still laughing, Clyde stands up and grabs the cup of discarded sweet tea. “Why don’t I just get you some water?”

 

“That’d be great. Thanks,” Stensland says, grateful that he hasn’t horribly offended Clyde.

 

Clyde takes a few moments behind the bar to finish putting away the case of beers he was hauling out of the back when Mellie stopped in to give him the lunch he’s now sharing with Stensland before scooping ice into the glass and filling it with water. He hesitates and debates putting a slice of lemon in it. It’s not something folks round here do, but it’s been offered to him on the rare occasions they go out to dinner in the city, and Stensland quite obviously isn’t from around here. The thought makes him frown, then shake his head to remind himself not to get twisted up in knots over some city boy who’s going to skip out of town just as soon as he’s done with lunch, that he’ll never see those pretty green eyes ever again, or that sweet, sad, just a little lost looking smile, that little startled look Stensland gets whenever Clyde is nice to him, like he’s not expecting it, like he isn’t used to having kindness offered to him (but if he stayed, maybe he’d get used to it, come to learn that Clyde likes doing nice things for skinny redheads with cute accents, except _he’s not, he isn’t_ , _he wouldn’t_ -)  

 

He’s worked himself into such a foul mood by the time he’s made the short trek back to the office that he’s determined to give Stensland his water, let him drink it, then remind him of his directions and tell him it’s time he got going.

 

Except Stensland is asleep, head lolling onto the back of the couch with the squished pillow that’s so flat Clyde doesn’t know why he keeps it anymore acting as a poor cushion and every few seconds he makes a little snorting sound that is more than a deep breath but a little less than a snore, soft little murmurs as his head twitches. He almost wakes him, but is stopped by the way the light catches on the deep bruises beneath his eyes, golden eyelashes fanned against them.

 

It’s a mistake, just another taunting reminder that the Logan’s are cursed and don’t get to have nice things, but Clyde sighs and sets the glass down as quietly as he can before settling himself on the couch. The shift in cushions topples Stensland and he ends up squashed against Clyde’s side. He wakes up just enough to mumble, “Wha?” before burrowing his face against Clyde’s shoulder and promptly dropping back into sleep, breath damp and hot against Clyde’s neck.

 

He waits a few minutes to see if Stensland is going to wake up but he’s determinedly sleeping the sleep of the exhausted, even if Clyde can’t imagine that his shoulder makes a very good pillow. When it becomes clear Stensland isn’t going to wake up he tries to shift him a little because his arm is caught in between their bodies, the metal of his fingers digging into his own side and what’s still there is numb from the elbow down. He tries to work it out, but all he manages to do is to slide it behind Stensland’s back, the tips of his carbon fingers resting lightly on Stensland’s hip.

 

He knows he should, but he doesn’t try to move it.

 

Instead, he stretches his free arm out just enough that he’s able to grab the remote off the table without jostling his sleeping companion. He rewinds the movie all the way and settles in to watch Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan stumble their way into love and contemplates chance meetings while Stensland breathes light and easy at his side.

 

_____

 

Stensland snuffles himself awake, sneezes when something insistently tickles his nose and regrets it when his head bumps into something solid, disorienting him even more. “Ow,” he whines, and tries to sit up, but something’s pinning him down and all he can see is black.

 

“Hey, careful,” a voice soothes, and a steadying hand comes up to his shoulder to help guide him up. He blinks and rubs at his smarting forehead, trying to orient himself, and when his eyes finally focuses he’s staring directly into the handsome face of Clyde, a little furrow between his brow that Stensland wants to smooth away with his thumb, but his other arm gets tangled and he finally gives into the strength of that warm hand on his shoulder and lets it guide him back against the couch.

 

“‘M sorry,” he apologizes through a yawn. “I don’t even remember falling asleep. Why didn’t you wake me?” There’s a damp patch on Clyde’s shirt and Stensland frowns at it, knowing it’s important but his still sleep addled brain takes long moments to realize why.

 

He apparently fell asleep on Clyde’s shoulder.

 

He fell asleep on Clyde’s shoulder, and _drooled_ all over him.

 

Which means the hard thing he was sleeping on was Clyde’s very sturdy shoulder, and all the black was his dark hair tickling his nose, and Stensland _sneezed on him_ …

 

Stensland can’t react, can’t do anything but watch as Clyde raises a hand, and oh God, Clyde’s mad, has to be furious, and he’s going to hit Stensland and throw him out and Stensland really has to pee and his map is still up on the bar and he probably won’t have time to grab it, and now he’ll never make it to Boston, and-

 

“Ya’ a’right?” Clyde asks, his accent smushing the words together into one long, drawn out sound as he touches hair off of Stensland’s forehead and brushes his fingers over the red mark on it. “You knocked yourself pretty good.”

 

“I’m sorry!” He yelps. “I didn’t mean to, you don’t have to throw me out, I’ll leave, I promise, just, can I use your-” and then the gentle touch that never turns harsh registers, and his brain finally catches up with his mouth and Clyde’s staring at him open mouthed and shocked and they both blink at each other.

 

“Why would I throw you out?”

 

“You’re not mad?” He asks, and can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed that his voice squeaks.  

 

“Why would I be mad, darlin’?” Clyde keeps himself from wincing when the word slips out, holds himself still and steady, and prays that if he doesn’t draw any attention to it then Stensland won’t notice.

 

“I fell asleep on you. I drooled all over you. I, _Jesus Christ,_ I sneezed in your hair.”

 

Clyde shrugs. “I work in a bar. That’s not the worst thing that’s ever gotten on me.” And there it is again, that little confused look on Stensland’s face, like he just can’t understand someone not being mad at him.

 

Stensland squirms, and at first Clyde thinks it’s because he’s staring too intently at that face, but he shifts again, and Clyde wasn’t lying, he works in a bar, he knows what it looks like when someone has to pee. “Did you need to use the bathroom?”

 

Stensland nods, and scrambles to his feet when Clyde points him out the door and down the short hallway. He doesn’t try too hard not to look at Stensland’s ass in his wrinkled khaki shorts, even if it does make his cock, already twitching from two hours with Stensland pressed up against him, warm and soft and muttering little nonsenses syllables against Clyde’s neck, the scent of cheap shampoo mostly drowned out by warm skin and sweat, harden a little more in his jeans.

 

He’s packed away the remains of lunch, switched off the television, and is behind the bar stacking glasses when Stensland walks back out. His hair is damp at the ends, the flush of panic gone from his face, and he's wiping his hands dry on his jeans from splashing water on his face. He tentatively takes a seat at the bar, perching on the stool directly across from Clyde, and looks at him with an unsure expression, lip caught between his teeth, and Clyde has to find something to do with his hands before he reaches up and tugs it loose.

 

“Here,” he says, sliding the glass of water he refilled, brimming with ice and already sweating, over to Stensland. “Drink this. Heat’s nothin’ you wanna mess around with.”

 

Stensland looks as grateful to have something to do as Clyde feels, and downs it in a few long swallows, wiping his mouth dry on the back of his arm.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“More?” Clyde asks, when Stensland is finished and tapping his fingers against the side of the glass.

 

“No. I really should-” Stensland trails off, glancing reluctantly at where his map is still spread out on the bar, a smooth, heavy line now mapping his path that Clyde laid down while he was in the bathroom. He looks back at Clyde quickly, as if the sight of the map hurts him. “Do you have a phone? I mean, well, I'm sure you do. But could I use it?”

 

“O’ Course. You can use the one in the office. Give you a little privacy.”

 

Stensland nods his thanks and slides off the stool, giving the map another regretful look before heading back to the office, ruffling a hand through his hair and making it stand back at the odd angles it was in before he smoothed it down in the bathroom. Clyde waits until he hears the door click softly shut and walks over to the map.

 

Stensland had kept looking at it, and he isn’t sure if it’s because he doesn’t want to go, or because he does want to and isn’t sure how to tell Clyde without being rude. He had thought he was doing Stensland a kindness when he traced his path, even if the thought made his chest ache in a way he wasn’t willing to explore, but now he’s not so sure. He hesitates and then starts folding it back up, being careful not to tear the worn paper, because even if his new hand is a huge improvement over his old prosthetic it’s still never going to be as gentle as his flesh and bone one. He lays the folded map back down next to Stensland’s glass and refills it for when Stensland is finished.

 

He knows Stensland has to go, and he tells himself he won’t be selfish enough to try to find an excuse to keep him here.

 

Clyde continues on setting up for opening, swapping out empty liquor bottles under the bar with fresh ones, making sure he has fully stocked glasses and fresh ice from the ice machine in the back. All that’s left is to give the floor a final sweep and set the chairs down, but Stensland still hasn’t come back and the broom is in the back. He doesn’t want to interrupt him, but he does need to finish.

 

He settles for being as quiet as possible as he walks back, even if his bulk and his boots combined make it impossible to be silent. The door to the office is opened a crack, maybe it’s been sticking again and he needs to look at it, or maybe Stensland just cracked it a little because of how stuffy the office can get with no windows and felt like he had the privacy to do so. The thought that Stensland only felt like he could open the door because Clyde was up front and wouldn’t overhear fills him with guilt and he tries to be as quick as possible about grabbing the broom and not listening, but he can’t help it.

 

“Yes, Da.” A ragged sigh. “Father, no, of course I’m excited. I’m just tired. Haven’t slept in a while,” Stensland says, a lie, because he has slept, just woke up with his head on Clyde’s shoulder not even fifteen minutes ago. “Yes, I’ll see you then.” There’s a pause, either the person on the other end of the line saying something,or maybe Stensland is gathering up his courage to say what comes next. “Of course. Give them my love, tell them I’ll see them soon.” There’s a rattle as Stensland sets the phone back down in the cradle, then silence.

 

Clyde holds himself still, one hand on the broom handle, and debates whether he should try to sneak back by or wait a few minutes and pretend he hasn’t overheard anything.

 

He’s still trying to decide when a croaked noise seeps out from behind the door, followed by a hitch of breath, and then what can only be the sound of crying, sobs muffled against hands. He knows the sound too well, became far too familiar with it while laying in a hospital bed and staring at a white ceiling because the only other thing to stare at was the space his hand should’ve been, pretending he couldn’t hear the sobs of broken men, mourning friends and brothers and lives they’d never get to live now.

 

He didn’t do anything then, it seemed the only kindness he could offer to pretend he didn’t hear, but he can’t not do anything now.

 

He leans the handle of the broom back against the wall, gives himself one deep breath to gather his courage, and taps gently at the door. “Stensland?” He calls, nudging the door open.

 

Stensland tries to scrub his face with a hand when Clyde says his name and pull his face into an expression resembling something other than sorrow, because Clyde has been so kind, so nice, and he has the solidity of a man who isn’t shaken by anything, he shouldn’t have to deal with Stensland’s break down on top of everything he’s already put up with, but knows he completely failed when Clyde’s face crumbles into sympathy and he says a quiet “Oh, darlin’.”

 

Stensland sobs harder, wraps his skinny arms around himself in an attempt to keep himself from shaking apart.

 

He doesn’t notice Clyde sitting down beside him on the couch, the shifting of the cushions unnoticable with how badly he’s trembling, until a metal hand lands on his knee, the carbon cool against his skin. “You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong, but-” Clyde begins, too good, too sweet and caring and gentle, and Stensland _knows_ it’s not an invitation, _he does, really_ , but all he’s felt is lost and lonely and abandoned, ever since he left Seattle (longer than that, for years, _ages_ , but he can’t think about that, _he can’t, he can’t_ ) and he hurls himself into Clyde’s bulk with such force he knocks him against the arm of the couch, crying against his chest.

 

“I’m just never gonna be good enough for anyone, am I?” Clyde’s arms come around him, squeeze him tight, and he curls himself tighter into Clyde’s space, trying not to think about the fact that he’s practically in the poor man’s lap, tears and snot soaking into the cotton shirt he’s already drooled on. At this rate he’s going to owe Clyde a whole new wardrobe.

 

Clyde’s not used to offering comfort. He’s too big, too intimidating, for anyone to look at and think anything other than dangerous, especially with his arm. He doesn’t know what to do, other than hold the shaking form in his arms at first, and he questions even that, because most people are wary of his arm, even Jimmy and Mellie try to avoid touching it, but Stensland hasn’t done anything to show that he’s bother by it in the short time Clyde’s known him, so he tries to remember what his momma used to do when he was a kid and busted his knee open trying to keep up with Jimmy.

 

He strokes one hand over Stensland’s hair, twisting because his head is under Clyde’s chin, the real one, the one that can still feel, and tells himself it’s because he doesn’t want any joints from his prosthetic snagging in that redgold halo, not because he wants to know what it feels like to comb his fingers through it, and rubs his other hand over Stensland’s back. Even with no nerve endings he can register that way his fingers bump over the knobs of his spine, even through his shirt. “It’s alright, it’s gonna be alright,” he soothes, and keeps up the slow steady strokes until Stensland’s tears subside into hiccuping, wet sounding breaths broken by little sniffles that make Clyde’s heart hurt.

 

“I’m sorry,” Stensland apologizes, wriggling out of Clyde’s arms reluctantly. “I keep leaking all over your shirt.”

 

“S’alright. What’s some tears between friends?” It’s the wrong thing to say, because Stensland’s lip trembles and Clyde fears he’s going to start crying again, but he takes several deep, unsteady breaths, until he looks calm again.

 

“You wanna talk about it?” Clyde asks, trying not to sound stilted and awkward. He remembers his therapist asking him that every session, knowing she was asking just because she had to and feeling resentful and obligated at the same time. He doesn’t want to make Stensland feel that way, but his shoulders sag in what Clyde thinks might be relief.

 

“I’m going to see my Da in Boston, because he and my stepmother are having a baby,” Stensland tells him, the words shaky. He winces as soon as he’s finished speaking, glancing at Clyde with wide, still teary eyes, like he’s afraid to be judged. “That, doesn’t sound right. I’m not, I’m not upset about the baby. I’m not mad _at_ the baby, it’s a baby. I can’t be mad at it, I just,” he heaves a frustrated breath. “I don’t think this is coming out right. I’m not sure where to start.”

 

“How ‘bout at the beginning?” Clyde suggests. His hand is sitting on the cushion between them and it’s only when the rest of his arm moves that he realizes Stensland has picked it up, cradling it in his own hand like it’s delicate, as if it isn’t strong enough to break his own. It’s so much smaller that Clyde’s. His fingers are long, but delicate, stroking over tiny screws and smooth, jointed metal with care.

 

“Is this okay?”

 

“Yeah.” The word is gruff, and he has to swallow before he tries again. “Yeah, it’s fine. It don’t bother you?”

 

“Why would it bother me?” Stensland looks up, and his eyes are so red and swollen it looks painful. Clyde should go find a clean bar rag and soak it in some cold water and let Stensland press it against his eyes but moving at all suddenly seems impossible.

 

“Most people are.”

 

“Most people don’t cry all over men they just met,” Stensland tells him with a little shrug. He lays it on his knee, covers it with his own, and Clyde can imagine the warmth.

 

“I lost it in Iraq,” he says, because it feels desperately, vitally important that Stensland knows this about him. “Army. Two tours.”

 

“My mam died when I was fifteen,” Stensland tells him, stroking over the metal fingers. There’s silence as he flips Clyde’s hand over, rubs his thumb against the plate that simulates the palm. “We lived in Ireland. We didn’t have much, but, but it was enough. My da left when I was three. He came back to America, got remarried, had two kids. I didn’t see him again until Mam died. Then I came over to live with him, because no one in Ireland would take me in. But, I don’t think he wanted me. He just took me in because he felt like he had to.

 

“He already had a family. A new one. A better one. I was just a reminder of a mistake he made when he was twenty. There was never room for me there. I was never going to be the kid he wanted, and he already had another son. So as soon as I turned eighteen I left, bought a bus ticket to Seattle and just went.

 

“He calls me once a year, on my birthday, and sends me a Christmas card. It’s one of those corny ones, like you see in movies? A family portrait with my father, and his wife, and his two kids, the ones he actually wanted.

 

“And now he calls me up and tells me Martha is pregnant, and they want me to come meet the baby. And I got scolded for not being appropriately enthused, and reminded I’m a disappointment he’d rather not deal with.”

 

When Stensland finishes he drops Clyde’s hand and tucks his feet up on the couch, wraps his arms around his legs and presses his forehead to his knees. He looks like a lost child, which, Clyde realizes, is probably exactly what he feels like. “You must think I’m pathetic,” he mumbles against his knees.

 

“No. I think you’re really brave,” Clyde tells him, and Stensland whips his head around to look at him.

 

“I’m not-” he starts to protest, but Clyde cuts him off.

 

“You are,” he insists. “I was in the army, Stensland. I’ve seen a lot of brave men, and a whole lotta cowards. You’re brave, I promise.”

 

“You really think so?”

 

“I do,” Clyde assures him. Stensland studies him. Somehow he hasn’t started crying again, even though his story made Clyde’s eyes feel tight and itchy, having to fight down feelings of outrage on Stensland’s behalf, because no one should have to feel that unwanted. His own family never had much, but he spent his childhood with a dad who gave Clyde piggyback rides until he was too big and a momma who somehow found a way to scrape together enough money to buy him a bike, even if it was second hand, just like Jimmy’s, when he turned nine.

 

His face isn’t as splotchy as it was, and Clyde’s struck again by how green his eyes are. Greener than the grass growing on the hills outside.

 

“I don’t feel very brave,” Stensland confesses, picking at a loose thread on the hem of his shorts.

 

“You left what you had behind and moved to a new city. You're goin’ back to see your dad because it's the right thing to do. I think that all takes a lot of strength.” Clyde stops and clears his throat, rubs his palms on his jeans, even if his fake one will never need it. “I was gonna move to Chicago, after I got out.”

 

“Why didn't you?”

 

“I, well,” he’s suddenly embarrassed and can’t look away from his hands, curls his fingers around his knee and clears his throat. “After, it just didn’t seem like a good idea anymore. My buddy Sam, he was from there, I was gonna go move in with him.”

“You must’ve been really good friends.”

Clyde frowns. He never really told anyone about Sam. Had mentioned him briefly in letters to Mel and Jimmy, dropped his name in the few phone calls he got so they knew he wasn’t alone, but that’s it. He wonders if Sam ever thinks about him, if he’s ever mentioned Clyde to others, and decides probably not. And suddenly the knowledge that he and Sam are the only ones who really know is crushing, too much of a burden to be shared between just two people.

 

It’s selfish, but he thinks he wants Stensland to be the one to know.

 

“Sam was, he wasn’t my friend. He _was_ ,” Clyde corrects. “But he wasn’t just, he was more than that.” Clyde sighs, because he’s not good with words. That was always other people’s gifts, that was why he let his siblings do all the talking. “Even after Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell was repealed, we wouldn’t’ve told anyone. Not until we got out.”

 

“Oh, Clyde,” Stensland says, his voice soft and low, and Clyde has to look at him, but he can’t, _he can’t, it’s too much-_

 

Except he turns, head ducked low so his eyes are covered by his hair, and there’s not disgust in Stensland’s face, like he’s always feared if he told someone, not even pity, just sorrow and understanding.

 

It shouldn’t startle him when arms wrap around him in a hug, not when he’s looking right at Stensland, but he’s too busy looking at his face to notice until Stensland’s pulling him in with arms that are stronger than they look (or maybe he just _wants_ to be pulled, maybe it’s been so long since someone held him that he doesn’t know how to resist.)

 

“You want to talk about it? You don’t have to, but it seems like maybe you’d like to.”

 

How odd, that after all those sessions with a therapist, all those nights where his nightmares were so loud they woke Jimmy up and they sat in the kitchen drinking coffee and saying nothing, after all the times where he told a half truth or sidestepped a story and Mellie fixed him with a look that made it clear she knew he wasn’t saying something, that he wants to talk now, to this stranger he’s only know for a few hours who stumbled into his bar lost, who Clyde knows is going to leave and never look back but is cruel enough to make him start thinking about things he’s refused to think about for a long time, like how nice it can be to have a sleeping body pressed up against him, the way arms around his shoulders can make him feel like he’s home.

 

“He’s not, he didn’t, he’s still alive, if that’s what you’re tryin’ to ask.”

 

“I’m not asking about him, I’m asking about you,” Stensland tells him, squeezing him a little closer. He knows he’s not strong, especially compared to Clyde’s sleek bulk, know that even the few girlfriend’s he’s had have never looked at him as a protector or a source of strength. But somehow, with Clyde in his arms, he feels strong, knowing that this mountain of a beautiful man is willing to seek comfort from him. “If you want,” he adds, because he’s determined to do right by Clyde. Clyde doesn’t seem like a man of many words, and when he first tenses Stensland expects him to pull away, and he’ll let him go, even if Clyde is warm and solid and smells so good and all Stensland wants to do is close his eyes and fall asleep again, Clyde in his arms, but this isn’t about him, so if Clyde wants to leave he’ll let him go.

 

But Clyde doesn’t pull away. Stensland feels his muscles relax, still solid and strong, but not wound tight, not twisted up like cables with tension.

 

“I woke up in the hospital, after. I don’t even remember making it back to the States. My sister Mellie was there. Sam had come back a few months before me, was s’posed to meet me when I returned. He never came to see me. First month they was just tryin’ to fight the infection, thought maybe they could save my hand.  I called, night before I was to go in for surgery, but he never answered. Finally, I got a letter from him, tellin’ me he thought it best I stay near family. So I could have people to help me recover.” His voice finally cracks.

 

It’s been so long, and it hadn’t seemed like the worst pain at the time, not when he was still recovering and cursing at his physical therapist and developing sores on his arms from the straps of the prosthetic that would eventually become calluses. He remembers waiting to read the letter until he was alone, a rare moment, because Mellie and Jimmy had apparently worked out shifts to drive up to Bethesda to see him, Jimmy sometimes bringing Sadie because Clyde’s baby niece was always so bright and cheerful, even then, that he couldn’t help but smile when she sat on the bed next to him or curled up on his chest and went to sleep.  He almost hadn’t opened the letter, had already know what it said, Sam’s absence over the long weeks more telling than any words.

 

It had seems inevitable. Logan’s didn’t get nice things. His missing arm was evidence of that.  

 

Stupidly, Clyde had always thought if he ever did tell someone that he’d be fine, that enough time had passed the wound those lines of text had cut into him had healed and scarred over, but he can feel his eyes burning, throat tight and itchy.

 

“I guess at least he told me before I packed up and moved there. Saved me the trouble o’ having to come back.”

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Stensland curses quietly under his breath. “I’m so sorry, Clyde. You deserved so much better.”

 

He shrugs, and the movement dislodges Stensland’s arms and he apparently takes it as a sign that Clyde wants him to let go. Absurdly, he misses the warmth as soon as Stensland’s arms are gone, but tells himself it’s for the best. Better not to get used to this.

 

Logans don’t get nice things. _Clyde doesn’t get to have nice things._

 

(The heist was a fluke, he tells himself constantly. Miss Grayson played her hand just a little too obviously, always asking questions she shouldn’t be in her eagerness to catch them, and when they had all clammed up she had left shortly after. He refuses to let himself believe maybe their luck has changed. Because as soon as he does, as soon as he starts thinking maybe something good will happen, that’s when he knows things will go south. It’s easier to just expect to be disappointed from the start.)

He stares at the wall, because that's easier than looking at his hand, or at Stensland. It's so soft at first that he doesn't realize the noise he barely hears is Stensland’s voice, not until he leans closer and fits his hand over Clyde’s.

 

“ _Oh I’ll tell you something, I think you’ll understand.”_ Clyde whips his head to look at him as he recognizes the tune, warbly but still recognizable in Stensland’s voice. “ _When I say that something, I wanna hold your hand_.”

 

Stensland stumbles over the next words in the song, losing the tune, but it doesn't matter, because Clyde's looking at him and not at his hand, eyes warm and deep and soft, and Stensland quirks a smile at him that Clyde tentatively returns. “No one's ever serenaded you before?”

 

He shakes his head but it doesn’t knock the smile from his face. “No one’s sung to me since my momma when I was little. I like the song though.”

 

“My mam used to sing to me too,” Stensland tells him and squeezes his hand again, but Clyde can’t feel it, so it must be either instinct or for his own comfort. Stensland doesn’t look so sad anymore, not like when he was talking about his mother before, he looks mostly happy, like it’s a good memory he wants to share.

 

And for some reason he wants to share it with Clyde.

 

He turns his hand beneath Stensland’s, flips it so their palms are pressing. He can’t curl his fingers like he wants but Stensland makes up for it by wrapping his own around Clyde’s, slotting them together, unbothered by the cool touch of metal. “You know, you’re probably the nicest person I’ve ever met.”

 

“You barely even know me,” Clyde protests, ignoring the flush of heat that he knows is staining his cheeks and crawling all the way up to his ears, the ends poking out despite his long hair.

 

“I don’t think anyone’s taken this good of care of me since Mam passed away,” Stensland tells him, and Clyde aches for him, for someone who thinks a stranger offering him directions and sharing their meal is an uncommon act of kindness. Especially now, knowing how Stensland’s been treated by his father, the thought of sending him away to go face that seems unbearably cruel. He knows Stensland has to leave eventually, but maybe he can give him a few more hours.

 

(Maybe he can keep Stensland for a few more hours.)

 

“I have to finish gettin’ ready to open,” he announces, and hates that Stensland suddenly pulls away.

 

“Oh! Of course. I’m sorry, I know I’ve taken up so much of your time. I really don’t think I can thank you-”

 

“Did’ya wanna help me?” He cuts off, when it becomes apparent Stensland will just keep talking until something stops him. It feels rude, his momma was big on respect and taught Clyde not to interrupt, but he thinks even she would forgive him. Stensland apparently has the talent of endless chatter, and Clyde wonders who’s there to stop him when he’s alone, or if he just keeps talking until his mouth goes dry and he has to stop for a drink.

 

“What?”

 

“Ya don’t hafta if you don’t want. You can just sit at the bar. But I need to get the chairs down and sweep.” He shrugs a shoulder. “We could put something on the jukebox, if ya wanted.”

 

Stensland scrambles from the couch, radiating an excited energy that makes it look like he’s bouncing on his toes without actually moving. “You have a jukebox? Is it one of the old ones, that uses records? I used to work at an antique store and we got them in from time to time. I always loved them. I have a record player myself, you know,” he announces proudly. He holds out a hand and makes a grabbing motion that it takes Clyde a few seconds to realize is him reaching out to take Clyde’s hand.

 

He lets Stensland lead him out of the office and back to the bar area, telling Clyde all about his record collection at home and how much he likes listening to them, especially the ones he was able to bring over from Ireland. His voice dips soft and low when he mentions those, and Clyde doesn’t have to ask to know they were Stensland’s mother’s, just squeezes the hand in his, his flesh and bone one, and feels Stensland squeeze back.

 

“Do you have Billy Ocean?” Stensland asks him when they’re standing in front of the old machine, the fingers of his hand not still curled in Clyde’s stroking the keys as he flips through the records. Jimmy’s tried to convince him to get rid of the ancient thing and get a new system in here for years, and he feels smug that for once he hasn’t given into Jimmy’s suggestions.

 

Clyde frowns and admits, “I don’t know who that is.”

 

Stensland shoots him a look. “You don’t? That’s too bad, I love him. Oh, do you have the Beatles?”

 

“Naw, sorry. It’s mostly country,” he admits, shoulders slumping with the absurd feeling that he’s let Stensland down somehow. “That’s all folks round here really wanna hear.”

 

Stensland’s face twists as he gnaws on his lower lip, frowning in concentration at the records. “What do you like?” He finally asks, staring helplessly at the list of artists he doesn’t know. Clyde gently nudges Stensland to the side and looks at the all the records. He’s not too familiar with what’s on here, mostly just lets the barflys play what they want because that always leads to better tips. He’s flipping through when something catches his eye.

 

“Do you know Loretta Lynn?” Stensland shakes his head, hair fluffing up around him. “She was my momma’s favorite. Maybe you’ll like her too?” Clyde explains, diggin in his pockets for a quarter before he drops it in and carefully hits the buttons with a metal finger, the jukebox whirring for a minute before the twang of a guitar filters from the speakers.

 

Clyde does have to finish getting ready, but Stensland isn’t inclined to move and Clyde doesn’t want to let go of his hand so he watches Stensland as Loretta Lynn sings about growing up in Butcher Holler. There’s a glisten in Stensland’s eye at the line _We were poor but we had love_ but the only other reaction is Stensland tilting his head to rest it on Clyde’s shoulder. He holds still, not wanting Stensland to move, until the last notes fade.

 

“She used to put it on and dance around with me to it,” Clyde tells him, the words spoken into Stensland’s hair. Stensland doesn’t say anything for long moments, and Clyde doesn’t press.

 

“What else did she like to listen to?”

 

Clyde has to go get quarters from behind the bar and when Stensland protests and tries to hand him some he refuses. “All goes back to me anyway,” he explains, and drops five quarters into the slot and selects songs that remind him of his childhood in a too small house with a momma who always played music and a daddy who worked long hours but always made time to throw Clyde over his shoulder when he came home from the plant and took them all fishing on the weekends.

 

For the first song Stensland is mostly quiet, helping Clyde flip the chairs down off the tables onto the floor, but sometime in the second one he starts talking again, his chatter bright and cheerful and jumping from one topic to the next without giving Clyde the chance to respond, filling whatever silence the music can’t, his voice like sunshine slipping between the slats of blinds, warm and soft.

 

Clyde has never been much of a talker. During school the friends he had were pretty much just Jimmy’s friends, letting him tag along not because they liked him but because they liked Jimmy. It never bothered him as much as it probably should’ve; he had Jimmy, and Mellie, and Momma and Daddy, and the helpful librarian who always let him check out more books than he was technically allowed and waived the few late fees he ever incurred. He never really wanted much else.

 

In the Army there had been an almost forced camaraderie, but being a quiet listener who knew just the right questions to ask to coax others into carrying the conversation had won him all the friends he needed. The same skills have served him well as a bartender- people don’t want to talk to their bartender, they want their drinks to keep coming and someone to talk at. He’s said more in these few hours with Stensland than he’d usually say in a week, and at first when Stensland started talking he had worried he’d be expected to keep up his side of the conversation but that’s proved not true. Stensland seems to have endless words and a boundless enthusiasm for using them.

 

The chairs are all down and Clyde is sweeping the last bit of dust off the floor while Stensland scrubs the bartop, perpetually sticky no matter how thoroughly Clyde cleans it every night after close, when the final song turns over and starts playing.

 

Stensland pauses and cocks his head toward the jukebox as John Denver’s voice fills the air.

 

“Ya know this one?”

 

Stensland shakes his head. “No. I like it though.” They listen for a few more lines. “What is it?”

 

“John Denver. Song’s called _Country Roads_.”

 

“Was this another one your mam liked?” Stensland asks, eyes focusing on Clyde while he concentrates on the music.

 

“Yeah. And Jimmy, my brother, it’s his favorite song.”

 

“I like it,” Stensland says again, and twists to look outside through a window. “West Virginia kinda reminds me of home.”  
  
Clyde looks at him skeptically. “Now I’ve never been west o’ the Mississippi, but I know West Virginia ain’t nothing like Seattle.”

 

“Not Seattle,” Stensland says. “H _ome_ .” He turns to look at Clyde. “ _Ireland._ ”

 

“Oh,” is all Clyde can find to say. He props his broom up against the wall where it promptly falls to the floor with a clatter that he ignores to go stand next to Stensland. He looks out the same window, stares at the same hills he grew up in, but is surprised to find they look different. It’s always been a pretty view during summer, softly rolling hillocks of land, lush green dotted with pops of wildflowers, but knowing it reminds Stensland of Ireland, of home, makes it all the more stunning.

 

“I’d forgotten this much green existed,” Stensland says, softly, like it’s a confession.

 

“Why have you never gone back? You must miss it.”

 

Stensland is quiet for so long Clyde starts to tell him to ignore the question, it was silly, of course he doesn’t have to answer, but- “It wouldn’t be the same. Without her. I miss it, but, mostly I just miss her.” He sighs. “This, though. If home has to be somewhere, this wouldn’t be bad.”

 

Clyde has to swallow to keep from speaking, from asking Stensland if he can imagine this _being_ his home. If he could imagine staying here with Clyde and spending the rest of his life staring out at the green hills that aren’t Ireland but maybe he could grow to love just as much. It’s too much, of course. He barely knows Stensland, knows he can’t ask, but that doesn’t mean he’s not allowed to want to.

 

“It’s nice,” he agrees, just to say something. “And at night, the stars. I dun think you’ll ever see anything prettier,” he admits, but he's not looking out the window, he's staring at Stensland.

 

“Stars,” Stensland sighs dreamily, reaching out a hand to brush his fingers against the window pane, as if he could pull the velvet darkness of the night sky lit with it’s twinkling pinpoints of diamonds down like a window shade. Stensland turns to face him, fingers still sliding against the window, face glowing with wonder as he turns wide eyes up to Clyde.

 

Clyde thinks maybe his cheeks are just a little bit pinker than they were seconds ago, the faint freckles scattered across his face showing up just a little bit more. He doesn’t even realize he’s reaching out until his thumb is sweeping across the smattering of them, smoothing across Stensland’s cheek, soft and warm beneath the cup of his palm, fitting so perfectly, like he was made for Clyde’s hands. He’s definitely blushing, cheeks staining pink under Clyde’s hand, and his lips part, soft and rosy, the tip of his tongue peeking through.

 

When he shifts his hand Stensland tilts his face with it, and it would be nothing at all for Clyde to lean down and kiss him, to slip his tongue between those lips and Stensland isn’t bothered by his prosthetic, he could pull him close with it, slot their bodies together and wrap him tight.

 

It'd be so easy to kiss him.

 

(It'd be so easy to fall in love with him. Clyde can picture it now, the silence of his life filled with Stensland's voice. Quietly creeping in after a weary shift during the winter, sliding in between the sheets and griping when Stensland puts cold feet on him but pulling him close anyway. Trading lazy kisses on the couch during long afternoons, a movie playing in the background. They'd be so happy, they'd never fight, because Clyde wouldn't be able to stand watching those eyes fill up with tears.)

 

“Hullo?” A voice calls, the squeak of the door hinges Clyde never seems to get around to oiling followed by footsteps on squeaky floorboards. “Clyde?” Mellie’s concerned voice calls. “Is everything- oh.” It's almost comical, watching Mellie stop short and rock back on her heels as soon as she spots them.

 

Clyde jerks his hand away and Stensland blinks like he's just stared at a too bright light, confusion coloring his features. Because of course, _of course_ , he wasn't waiting for Clyde to kiss him, that was just his own wishful thinking.

 

“I, uh,” Clyde scrambles, trying to come up with an explanation. “I think you’re getting a sunburn,” he lies. “Your face, it’s, it’s all red.”

 

“Oh.” Stensland taps his fingers against his cheeks. “Right. Right, I burn. Irish blood, yeah?” He says, giving a little hiccuping laugh. “I do feel a little hot. I’m just gonna,” he trails off, jerking a thumb toward the mens room instead of finishing his sentence and giving an awkward smile.

 

“Who’s your friend, Clyde?” Mellie asks as the door swing closed behind Stensland, startling Clyde, because somehow Stensland has the power to convince him they’re the only two people in the room, to make the rest of the world fade into nothingness.

 

He turns his head to look at her, arms crossed and rocking back on the heels of her cowboys boots while she waits for him to answer, a funny little twist to her lips, half rabid curiosity and half teasing. Clyde frowns. Whatever she thinks, whatever impression she’s got, whatever she believes she walked in on that was more than just Clyde letting his foolish wishful thinking run away with him, she’s wrong, and he knows it will take a lot to convince her. (Especially when he doesn’t want to convince her, when he wants what she clearly thinks to be the truth.)

 

“What you doin’ here, Mel?” He asks instead of answering, although the tilt of her head says she won’t let him get away with avoidance.

 

“Was thinkin’ I might get a drink.”

 

“Bar don’t open til six, Mellie. You know that.”

 

“I do,” she agrees. “It’s after,” she tells him, giving the unimpressed look she perfected years ago from dealing with the fallout of Jimmy’s cauliflower schemes and nodding to the clock on the wall, the damning hands of it having crept past the six without Clyde realizing.

 

Clyde’s never opened a minute late in his life, as she damn well knows. She glances toward the door to the mens room, telling him she knows exactly why he lost track of time.

 

“Mel-” he starts, but Stensland steps back out, hair slicked flat at his temples and darkened with water, although Clyde knows it’ll dry and be sticking up again shortly, and his fingers itch to run through it. He hesitates a couple of steps from them, eyeing Mellie, and Clyde realizes how used to having Stensland in his personal space he had gotten, from having Stensland practically crawl into his lap for comfort on the couch to the way they keep holding hands and just slipping past each other while they were setting up, brushing shoulders or tapping each other on the hip to silently ask one another to move.

 

It’s been so long since anybody wanted that kind of casual contact with him, put off by his bulk and his arm, that Clyde hadn’t even realized he was missing it, and now, looking at Stensland stuff his hands into his pockets like he’s not sure of his place with this new stranger, he realizes he hungers for it.

 

“I should probably be going,” he says with a tiny shrug. “It’s late, and I’ve already taken up so much of your time,” he apologizes, the faintest tinge of pink popping up on his cheeks again. “Thank you, Clyde, I really don’t-”

 

“I’m Mellie,” she interrupts, shoving a hand out toward him. “Clyde’s sister.”

 

“Oh, uh, hello,” he says, awkwardly taking her hand and looking like he doesn’t quite know what to do. “I'm Stensland. I got a little turned around and Clyde was nice enough to give me directions.”

 

“You ain't planning on headin’ out so soon, are ya?”

 

“Oh, well,” Stensland mutters, ruffling a hand through his hair. “That is, it's already late and I think I've taken more than my share of Clyde’s time.”

 

“Nonsense,” Mellie tells him, brushing the comment aside with a wave. “Let me buy you a drink and ya can tell me how you ended up here. With that accent I can tell you’re from outta town.”

 

“Mel,” Clyde starts, because of course Stensland needs to leave. Clyde’s known all along that Stensland will leave.

 

“You don’t have to-”

 

“Sugah, round these parts when a lady asks you to join her for a drink, you accept. ‘Sides, my boyfriend’s not coming ‘til 7 and Clyde ain't always the best company. You'd be doing me a favor.”

 

“I think Clyde’s great company,” Stensland announces, then ducks his head, looking at Clyde from underneath his hair and offering him a shy smile.

 

Clyde swallows, throat dry. “I owe you a drink, anyways,” he says. “A thanks, for your help.”

 

“Oh no, you don't have-”

 

“I _want to_ ,” he cuts off Stensland's protest.

 

Stensland glances over at the clock again, lip caught between his teeth. “I mean, I'm already late, right?” He asks, clearly willing to be swayed.

 

“You can tell me all ‘bout that, then,” Mellie says, slipping a hand around Stensland's arm and leading him to the bar, leaving Clyde to follow along.

 

____

 

“-and then ever since Clyde’s had this theory, see, that us Logans are cursed or sumthin, all just cause we had a run of bad luck,” Mellie’s saying when he’s finally able to make his way back over to where she’s been sitting with Stensland at the bar, Joe Bang now at her side with a hand on her back. Clyde winces at the end of the story Mellie’s telling, but a glance at Stensland shows nothing other than amusement in his eyes so hopefully she’s had the sense to avoid the more tragic parts of their family history and just talk about the trouble they all got into when they were younger. Even if Clyde’s bad luck is impossible to miss, hanging at his left side.

 

“It must’ve been nice,” Stensland says, pausing just long enough to pick up the beer he hasn’t taken more than three sips of durning the past hour, his nose scrunching up in distaste just from the smell before he puts it back down. “Having family like that to run around with.”

 

“You don’t got any brothers or sisters?” Joe asks, and Stensland shakes his head.

 

“Not, not really. That is, yeah, but, we’re, we’re not close,” he finishes, the words dropping low and melancholy and he stares into his beer, the foam having dissipated long ago as Mellie and Joe share a look.

 

Clyde clears his throat. “Here,” he cuts in, sliding some quarters across the bar to Stensland. “It’s too quiet. Go put something on the jukebox?”

 

Stensland perks up. “What do you want to hear?”

 

“Surprise me. Anything’s fine.”

 

“What was that about?” Mellie asks, when Stensland is standing at the jukebox flicking through the records.

 

“I get the impression he don’t get on very well with his family,” Clyde tells her, clearing away the beer Stensland isn’t going to drink and filling a cup up with Sprite instead.

 

“And ya figured this out in all the time you two spent together?”

 

“We _talked, Mel._ Whatever it is you’re thinkin’ in that head o’ yours-”

 

“You can’t take your eyes offa ‘im, Clyde. You’re halfway cross the room and I see you lookin’ back at ‘im, like you wanna be sure he ain’t slipped out.”

 

“He’s leaving,” Clyde bites out, grabbing a rag to scrub at a nonexistent spot on the bar. “He’s got family to go see.”

 

“Family he told you he don’t like.”

 

“Will you two shut it?” Joe interrupts before their argument can continue, just seconds before Stensland hops back up on the stool, blinking when he sees his beer is gone.

 

“It’s Coke,” Clyde explains.

 

Stensland makes a questioning noise before bringing it up and taking a small, cautious sip. He must’ve learned his lesson with the sweet tea. “This is Sprite,” he accuses, but takes another swallow.

 

“That’s what we call it,” Mellie explains, hiding a smile at Stensland’s expense in her own beer while Joe disguises his grin with a kiss to Mellie’s temple. Clyde’s given up trying to pretend to himself he doesn’t find Stensland adorable but since he isn’t quite ready to announce it out loud he hides his own fond expression by turning to grab some empties down the bar. “Round here any pop is Coke.”

 

“Why not just called it Sprite?” Stensland mutters, but any hint of sadness from before is gone as he gratefully swallows his drink.

 

“You coulda just said if you don’t drink,” Clyde tells him, trying to keep his voice level and calm so Stensland doesn’t think he’s upset.

 

“No, I, I do,” he admits. “It’s just, I don’t always make the best decisions when I do.”

 

“Sounds like there’s a story there,” Joe chimes in.

 

“Not one I’m really proud of.” Stensland looks up at him, eyes big and wide, a look that’s almost heartbreak edging onto his features and Clyde’s heart is pounding in his chest at the realization Stensland is fearful he’s ruined Clyde’s opinion of him.

 

There’s no words he can find to say. (Lies, lies, lies. There’s words, there’s lots of words. _It’s alright_ , and _whatever it is I don’t care,_  and _could I make you happy_ and _stay, please, stay here with me, I’ll make it alright, somehow, I’ll find a way_ but he can’t say those. He can’t crack himself open and say those words, not when Stensland is going to leave and Clyde is just clinging onto borrowed time, even if his chest already feels like it’s been ripped open just by those sad, sad green eyes.)

 

Instead he give Stensland a smile, and he’s always hated his smile, the crooked teeth there was never any money to get straightened and the way one side of his lips always pulls a little higher, but maybe it’s not so bad if it means Stensland finds something in it to make him smile back.

 

It's suddenly too much, the weight of Mellie’s scrutiny and the knowledge that every sweet smile Stensland gives him may be the last, the air almost oppressive as he looks at Stensland and is reminded of his lifelong bad luck, the universe dangling something he wants so terribly, someone he could be happy with, right in front of him but with the knowledge that it can’t last.

 

“I need to go check somethin’ out back,” he mutters, tossing the bar rag slung over his shoulder into the sink with a wet _splat_ and ignoring the feel of eyes on his back and someone trying to get his attention further on down the bar to order.

 

_It’s too much, it’s not enough. He needs to be alone even if being away from Stensland for just a minute feels like it’s going to break his heart, and how will he ever survive when he finally walks out the door-_

 

Clyde sucks in a great lungful of the night air, still so humid it feels sticky in his lungs in a way that predicts rain but at least a it’s a bit cooler now that the sun’s dipped down, does it again until it feels a little less like he’s drowning. He brings his hands up to scrub over his face, forgetting somehow that he’s missing a hand, lopsided, not quite whole, until the joints of the prosthetic tangle in his hair and he rips strands out trying to tug it free.

 

“Shit!” He curses, and tells himself the tears he blinks back are from the small pain of torn out hair.

 

“You wanna tell me why you’re hiding out here when your fella’s in there?” Mellie calls from the doorway, gravel crunching under her boots as she quickly hops down the steps.

 

“Go back inside,” he tells her, but the words quaver, thick and wet with the tears he isn’t going to cry.

 

She softens, dropping her arms from where they’ve been crossed in front of her. “Clyde Logan, I have been waitin’ ten years for you to fall in love, and while I never thought it’d take you less than six hours anyone can see what’s goin’ on ‘tween you two.” She stops in front of him, touches hair of his face and smiles sadly at the sorrow etched into his features. “Oh honey,” she comforts. “I know ya like him. What’s stopping ya’ from telling him?”

 

“He has to leave, Mel,” he chokes, and has to draw a ragged breath before he can go on. “He’s gonna leave, and I’ll be alone again, and what’s it matter? Even if I asked him to stay why would he wanna?”

 

Mellie has to bounce onto her tiptoes to hug him, just like she has ever since he hit his growth spurt at sixteen and grew too big too fast, outgrowing his pants faster than momma could let the hems on them down, forcing him to always be walking around with an inch or two of ankle showing, but it didn’t stop her then and it still doesn’t stop her now from wrapping her arms around his neck, forcing him to stoop low to return the hold.

 

“You’re my baby brother, and you ain’t ever gonna be alone in this world, ya’ hear me, Clyde Logan? Not so long as I’m in it. But you need to ask that boy to stay, because if you don’t you is gonna be regrettin’ it for the rest o’ your life. And I won’t let you do that to yourself. And if he’s too slow to see how lucky he is then he ain’t worth it anyway.”

 

Clyde doesn’t say anything, just squeezes her tighter, her little body held tight against his like she’s going to protect him from the world. It should be laughable, but he’s never doubted Mellie’s fierceness.

 

She starts humming softly, and it takes a second for Clyde to realize it’s not tuneless, that she’s actually humming along with the music he can hear softly filtering through the opened door. “Momma’s favorite song,” she says quietly, finally letting him go.

 

“Stensland musta put it on.”

 

“Did ya listen to it with him?” She asks, and he hesitates before he nods, because Mellie knows what this song means to him, the memories of his momma he associates with it. “ _Ask him,_ ” she insists again.

 

“Maybe I-”

 

“Clyde? Are you- oh! Sorry,” Stensland’s head pops out in the darkness from the doorway. “Sorry, sorry,” he apologizes again. “I didn’t mean, that is, I just wanted to, I’ll come back. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

 

“You ain’t interrupting nothin’, hon,” Mellie calls, making her way back up the steps. “Just had to talk with him ‘bout family things, but Clyde’s all your now,” she says, clapping him on the shoulder as she passes him in the door and subtly pushing him out. Stensland stumbles and has to do a little bouncing hop on one foot before he regains his balance, clutching the railing to steady himself.

 

“Ya alright there?” Clyde asks, taking the two stairs in one stride onto the small porch to grab Stensland’s arm and make sure he’s steady.

 

“I’m fine!” Stensland yips, voice high until he clears his throat. “I’m fine, thanks,” he says again, voice level, and Clyde takes a step back when he realizes how close he’s standing. Stensland blinks at him and then turns his head in the way Clyde just now realizes he always does when he’s trying to hide a blush. “Wow, you weren’t joking about the stars,” he says, voice barely a breath and filled with wonder as he takes in the inky darkness of the sky with it’s scattered pinpricks of stars filling the canvas.

 

“Do you like ‘em?” Clyde asks.

 

“They’re beautiful. Imagine, getting to see these every night.”

 

_You could. You could see them every night if you stayed. I could drive you out to a field where there’s no light around for miles and if you’d let me I’d wrap you in blankets and hold you tight and we’d look up at the stars for as long as you want._

 

_Could this be enough for you?_

 

_(Could I be enough for you?)_

 

Clyde tries the words in his head, because if this is what Stensland wants Clyde will give it to him, will give him night skies and stars and will gladly spend as much time staring up at them as it takes for Stensland to start thinking of this place as home.

 

Except the words don't come, they stick to his palate and die on his tongue, like they always have. There's a reason he's never been much for talking, always afraid things will come out wrong. Better to stay silent.

 

Stensland cocks his head, an ear turned toward the door. “Oh,” he says, so softly Clyde has to lean closer to catch the words. “I found a song on the jukebox I actually knew.” Clyde strains to hear, catches he barest hint of a tune before a crooning voice starts singing.

 

_Wise men say_

_Only fools rush in_

_But I can't help falling in love with you_

 

Clyde swallows. “Elvis?” He asks, even though he knows the song.

 

“Yeah. He was my mam’s favorite. It, it seemed appropriate.” Clyde can't do anything but nod, enraptured by the way the moonlight throws Stensland's features into stark contrasts of black and white. “Do you, that is, do _you_ like this song?” Stensland asks, the words tripping off his tongue in a rush.

 

“I do,” Clyde tells him, speaking softly so as not to drown out the quiet words of the song.

 

“Would you, and you can say no, of course! But, that is, would you like to dance? With me?” Stensland hand brushes Clyde’s arm, trailing over it until his fingers rest against the back of his hand.

 

“I'm not very good,” Clyde confesses, and Stensland’s face falls, the openess of his eyes shuttering off and his hand drops away. “I still want to, though,” Clyde tells him hurriedly, catching Stensland's wrist in his hand. “Just, be patient?”

 

“Of course,” Stensland agrees, turning his hand so their fingers slot together and wrapping his other arm around Clyde’s neck, stepping close enough Clyde can feel the heat of him, can catch a whiff of sweat and feel sweet breath damp on his shoulder. “Just wrap your other arm around my waist,” Stensland instructs in a whisper.

 

“Like this?” It's a clumsy movement since he can't feel but eventually his hand settles on the small of Stensland's back, and even with no nerve endings he knows his palm fits perfectly, like the dip of Stensland's back was made for him.

 

“Yeah, just like that.” Stensland tucks his head against Clyde’s shoulder and sways back and forth, not really dancing, just rocking gently, and Clyde stands stiff and tall, breath held until it’s burning in his lungs, until Stensland lets out a soft sigh, barely heard, more just a breath of air that ruffles Clyde’s hair than an actual sound, and Clyde shuffles them around the small space of the porch, Stensland pressed so close it’d be impossible for him not to follow Clyde’s lead.

 

The music is so faint that it takes Clyde a moment to realize the song is over and they’re dancing to nothing but the buzz of cicadas. He doesn’t want to let Stensland go but he’s been away long enough there’s probably going to be a line of angry, thirsty customers waiting for him. “The song’s done.”

 

Stensland murmurs a questioning noise before the words seems to register and he slowly drifts away from Clyde. He wraps his arms around himself, skinny knife point elbows cupped in his palms, and a shiver runs through him even though it’s still nowhere near chilly.

 

“I should be gettin’ back,” he admits reluctantly.

 

Stensland closes his eyes and takes a long, deep breath. “I actually came out here to say goodbye. I need to be heading out. Really I should’ve left a hours ago, I just didn’t want to.”

 

_Then don’t._

 

Clyde tells himself he's done far scarier things than asking someone if they could see having a future with him, but somehow the courage that carried him through going to war and finding a way to carry on after losing his hand and agreeing to Jimmy’s crazy plan to pull off a heist fails him.

 

“Well if, if you're sure. Let me, let me grab your map.” It's not enough. He can't say what he want, but he still has to say more. “I'm really glad you stopped in.”

 

“Yeah,” Stensland says with a little sad smile. “I never thought I'd be happy to get lost, but I am. I'm really glad I got to meet you, Clyde.”

 

“I am too.”

 

They stand there staring at each other for long minutes. It's Stensland who breaks the moment. “I should-” he starts, gesturing toward the door.

 

“Right. Right,” Clyde realizes he's blocking the door and steps aside to let Stensland through, even if watching him, knowing he's walking away, breaks his heart.

 

Mellie stares at him when he ducks back behind the bar to grab Stensland’s map, giving the patrons trying to get his attention to order a drink a sharp look that silences them. “You're leaving?” She asks, incredulous. Clyde shrinks down, because he can't deal with whatever she's going to say to him as soon as Stensland leaves.

 

“I just, I _have_ to,” Stensland tells her, and she looks a little startled at the hug he pulls her into, but relaxes and pats his back.

 

“Thank you. For everything,” Stensland says as he takes the map from Clyde’s hand and stuffs it in his pocket, pats himself down to find his keys. “I can't thank you enough, really. I'll never forget this.” There’s tears in his eyes, shining bright even in the dim light of the bar, and all Clyde wants is to wipe them away, to pull Stensland into his arms and stroke his hair and do whatever it takes to make that look scrunching up his features go away. Stensland blinks furiously a couple times in an effort to hold the tears back but all it does is clump his eyelashes together, turn them from a pale gold to a burnished red.

 

“I’m glad you found me,” Clyde tells him, and hopes Stensland doesn’t pick up on the waver in his voice. Stensland has a face made for smiling, and watching him wear any other expression is like watching a sunflower droop and die when summer leaves, a brightness that should never fade, the weariness and sadness he wears now dark and heavy on his features.

 

“I am too,” he admits, looking at Clyde. He blinks three times, then nods to himself and plants a hand on the bartop to leverage himself up off the ground just a couple of inches to plant a sloppy, open mouthed kiss on Clyde’s cheek, a wet smear that drags just barely across the coarseness of his goatee.

 

Stensland turns, a blush on his cheeks Clyde barely catches a flash of as he hurries to the door, Clyde staring after him trying to focus on anything other than the soft press of Stensland’s lips and the cooling touch of the kiss to his cheek.

 

“Wait!” He calls out, when Stensland’s hand is wrapping around the handle of the door, much louder than the distance between them requires. “Wait, Stensland, I-” It seems an impossibly long time that it takes for Stensland to turn to face him, long enough for his throat to dry up and his palm to get so clammy Clyde grabs a bar towel to wipe his hands on and twist around his fingers. “Remember, left, left at the caution light will take you to 81.” He clears his throat, ignores the weight of eyes of everyone in the bar staring at him, the locals he sees every day watching him, ignores the silence that broke out as soon as he called Stensland’s name, because it doesn’t matter if they hear, it only matters that he says this, _now_ , before it’s too late. “But if you turn right it’ll bring you right back here. To me.”

 

Stensland opens his mouth, but says nothing. He nods, and with a last lingering look at Clyde, opens the door just enough to slip out into the night.

 

It’s a brush of fingers on his arm that startles Clyde into tearing his eyes from the now closed door and when he turns his head Mellie is looking at him with such pity in her eyes it makes him want to retch. “Clyde, I’m so sorry. I thought for sure-”

 

“I need to check something in the back,” he cuts her off, jerking his arm back until her fingers fall away. “Watch the bar, will ya?” He doesn’t bother waiting for a response, just walks off, away from the bar where he stood when he first spoke to Stensland, back into the office where they shared a meal and Stensland babbled too much in a way Clyde couldn’t help but be charmed by, lowers himself onto the couch where he first held Stensland in his arms, where Stensland held his hand and sang to him and cried on him and listened to the secrets Clyde’s never told anyone else and didn’t judge him for them.

 

A drop of moisture splatters on his jeans, feathering out into a dark circle, followed by another. Clyde doesn’t bother to wipe the tears away, instead lets himself tilt sideways onto the couch and lays his head on the same pillow Stensland used. His nose is already so stuffed up it’s hard to breathe but he still smells the faintest traces of Stensland’s shampoo on the fabric.

 

He clutches the pillow, holds it tight to his chest he can’t seem to get enough air in.

 

It’s not enough. It’s not Stensland, warm and soft and here in his arms.

 

But it’s all he’s got.

 

_____

 

Stensland drums his fingers on the steering wheel, staring out the windshield being pattered with rain, the windshield wipers squeaking every time they swing back down, at the blinking caution light, hand hovering on the turn signal but never hitting it.

 

Left will take him to the interstate, to Boston, to a father who he doesn’t think has ever let him actually finish a sentence, constantly interrupting him, because Stensland babbles and rambles and lets his words get sidetracked and can never _just get to the point, will you, Stensland? I don’t know how your mother put up with this for fourteen years._

 

Right. Right will take him back. Back to the Duck Tape Bar.

 

(Back to Clyde.)

 

Clyde, who didn’t interrupt him and didn’t scold him when Stensland cried on him. Clyde, who was big and warm but oh so gentle whenever he touched Stensland, like Stensland was worth being gentle with, was worth a steadying hand and kindness.

 

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep on Clyde but his body had sought him out insticutally, like it knew Clyde wouldn’t hurt him, would keep him safe, even if it was only for a few hours before Stensland had to trudge off to face a family he was never going to be good enough for. But after that first time it hadn’t been an accident every time his head ended up on Clyde’s shoulder, intentionally seeking out the feel of those strong muscles against him, knowing he should feel fragile as a butterfly, vulnerable and scared next to all that strength, but he had only felt protected.

 

Clyde had watched him have a breakdown, had listened to Stensland sob out his life story through hiccuping tears. It wasn’t unusual for Stensland to have an outburst like that, wasn’t even the first time it had been to a stranger. But it was the first time anyone had ever bothered to tell him it was going to be alright.

 

It was the first time in a long time someone had wanted Stensland to be alright.

 

Left or right.

 

Left or right.

 

Left or right.

 

He had thought, just for a moment, that maybe Clyde would tell him he didn’t want Stensland to go. They had danced together. They had _held hands._

 

(As if that means anything. As if that matters to anyone but Stensland. It hadn’t meant anything to Morgan. It hadn’t mattered to Michelle when Stensland had ridden with her to the airport and held her hand the entire way and tried to kiss her goodbye and tell her how much he cared before she went away to grad school. Simon didn’t care that he and Stensland had held hands and snuck kisses in the boy’s bathroom junior year, he had still refused to talk to Stensland when his friends were around, uncaring of the hurt in Stensland’s eyes when the boy he had hoped would be his boyfriend pretended not to know him. And Eileen O’Dalaigh had stood next to him and held his hand the all through his mother’s funeral but when Stensland had sent her letters from America she never responded despite promising to stay in touch.)

 

Except maybe it did matter to Clyde.

 

He had asked Stensland to come back.

 

Hadn’t he?

 

Or was he just being nice, in the same way he had been nice to Stensland since he had walked in the door?

 

Obviously Clyde was just being nice. He had seen Stensland’s complete lack of directional awareness and witnessed his almost total inability to read a map and had just wanted to make sure Stensland knew how to get back if he got lost.

 

That had to be it, just Clyde’s basic human decency, because there was no reason a man that handsome and kind would want Stensland to come back.

 

He had thought he sensed something in Clyde, a loneliness that he wore so often it had settled into his very bones until he was no longer even aware it was there. Stensland thought he had recognized it only because it was a reflection of his own loneliness. But that’s absurd. Clyde is kind and good and has family and a bar full of people who know his name. Stensland has an empty apartment that’s half filled with worthless junk because it feels a little less empty when he’s tripping over stuff.

 

There’s no reason Clyde would want him to stay.

 

His parting offer was nothing but a kindness.

 

(Except did kindness include letting Stensland nap and telling him something he’s positive Clyde’s never told anyone else? Was dancing with Stensland, holding him close and tight, the planes of the bodies fitting together in ways Stensland hadn’t thought possible something Clyde would do for anyone who asked? Did Clyde play every weary, lost soul who stopped in the bar the songs he used to listen to with his mother?)

 

Stensland shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair, because it’s already such a mess it’s beyond salvageable and there’s no one here to impress.

 

Sighing, he picks up the map sitting open on the passenger seat and studies it, has to refold it before he can find West Virginia. He finally finds the path Clyde traced for him, 81 to 78 to 95. The smooth, black line Clyde laid overtop of the zigzagging tangle of colorful lines that make up the roads. There’s a smear, just a small dot where the ink feathered when Clyde first put the pen to the paper, and Stensland touches a finger to it, follows the path Clyde laid out for him, the miles that will take him home.

 

(But it’s not home. It’s not. _It’s not._ )

 

Boston, with a father and stepmother and two half siblings who have never bothered to listen to him, not ever, not really, isn’t home. And Ireland isn’t home anymore either. Not without his mam to brush hair out of his eyes and fill the tiny house with the aroma of shepherd's pie and her singing. Seattle isn’t home, just a place to live.

 

Stensland rubs steam off the inside of the windshield, squints out in the rainy darkness and tries to make out the hills he’s been driving through.

 

He meant what he told Clyde. Maybe West Virginia could be his home.

 

(Maybe Clyde could be his home.)

 

He looks at the map again.

 

Clyde didn’t mean it like that. He was just making sure Stensland knew what to do if he got lost.

 

Left at the caution light to go to Boston. But right-

 

Clyde didn’t mean-

 

But what if he did?

 

“You’re a big, beautiful, condor,” Stensland starts to say, but stops, not continuing. He feels like nothing other than the same lost little motherless boy he was, standing in an airport in a country he had never been in before and looking for a man whos face he knew only from pictures.

 

The scowl on his father’s face when Stensland finally found him, the gruff voice he had used to correct him when Stensland called him ‘da’, telling him “Call me father,” is something he’s never forgotten. He had known, fourteen and scared but trying his best not to show it because the last thing he had promised his mam was that he’d be brave, that he wasn’t wanted.

 

He’s never been good enough for anyone since. But maybe, maybe he could be.

 

(Stensland had promised her he’d be brave. Maybe he lost that somewhere along the way, but he owes it to her, he owes it to _himself_ , to find it again.)

 

Stensland tosses the map back on the seat beside him and hits the turn signal.

 

____

 

Clyde’s pouring beer into a glass when the door opens, bringing with it the sounds of the storm that had rolled in the better part of an hour ago with it. He had stopped looking up hopefully whenever the door opened thirty minutes ago, unable to stand feeling like his heart was breaking with disappointment every time it wasn't Stensland walking in.

 

The crowd’s subdued tonight, everyone’s patient with him when they have to repeat their orders twice or three times before Clyde remembers. He tells himself it’s the storm, the rain dampening spirits as well as the ground outside only because he can’t stand the embarrassing thought that they all witnessed his parting words to Stensland, can’t make eye contact with people if he thinks about how they all watched Stensland walk away from him. No one had said anything when he came out of the office with swollen eyes and a voice that was strained and swallowed down a glass of water and Clyde has made himself pretend that it’s because no one knows he was crying, even if it’s the most absurd lie he’s ever told.

 

“Clyde,” Mellie calls.

 

“Just a sec,” he tells her, tilting the glass to get the perfect head of foam.

 

“ _Clyde_ ,” she hisses again.

 

“ _What, Mel-_ ” he snaps, head whipping toward her, irritated. He stops as a flash of red grabs his eye, Stensland standing in the doorway, hair finally flat and plastered to his head, dripping water into his eyes while his clothes drip puddles onto the floor, chafing his arms to try to warm up from the surprisingly cold, biting rain that had soaked him through just on his short dash from the car.

 

The feel of beer running over his fingers makes Clyde lose his grip, the glass falling to the ground and shattering. He fumbles around to shut off the tap when Mellie appears at his side and flips it off. “Go,” she tells him, shoving him away.

 

“I have to-”

 

“ _Go_ ,” she orders him, elbowing him in the side and rolling her eyes, grabbing another pint glass and slotting it under the tap.

 

Clyde takes a stumbling step forward, realizes he’s going the wrong way to walk out from behind the bar but putting any more distance between himself and Stensland feels impossible, so instead he vaults over the bar instead.

 

It’s his damn bar, he can do what he wants, and anyone who complains is getting a lifetime ban.

 

Stensland is still shivering when Clyde stops in front of him, not moving from the spot he’s been standing in since Clyde first saw him. “Hi,” he greets awkwardly, pushing wet hair out of his face only for it to flop back down.

 

“Hullo,” Clyde says in return, because he can’t find anything else to say. “You’re, you're all wet.” He winces, silence would’ve been better, but Stensland just nods.

 

“It’s raining.” His jaw flexes, and Clyde wonders what he’s upset about, then realizes it’s an attempt to keep his teeth from chattering together.

 

Clyde crosses his arms, because if he doesn’t do something with them he’s going to gather Stensland’s shivering body up in them and hold him until he’s warm again. “Are you, didja get lost again?”

 

“No. No, I didn’t, I’m not, that is,” he stops, shakes his head, little droplets of water flicking off the ends. He starts again. “I’m not lost. I think, I think maybe I’m finally where I’m supposed to be.”

 

Clyde’s saved from trying to find something to say by Mellie appearing at his elbow and pressing something into his hand. He blinks at the cup of coffee, the oily slickness of the surface giving rise to small wisps of steam. “You, you must be freezing,” he says, holding out the heavy white mug that Stensland takes in shaking hands, pulling it to his chest to try to steal as much of the heat as possible.

 

Clyde tries not to think about if his hands are shaking from cold or nerves.

 

“Let’s go back to the office. I can warm ya up there,” he says, and immediately feels his face warm when he realizes how that sounds. “That’s, that’s not-”

 

Stensland’s shoulders relax, and Clyde hadn’t noticed how tense they were before, wound tight with tension. “That sounds good, yeah,” is all he says, not taking the obvious opening for the joke, because Stensland is too kind to point out when Clyde’s words don’t come out quite right, hasn’t teased him about his lack of words like everyone else does.

 

“Right,” Clyde says, nods to himself, and turns around, refusing to look at everyone in the bar who’s borne witness to their reunion. He wants to glance back at Stensland to make sure he’s following but it feels like too much, like he’ll be revealing more than he already has, so instead he just lets himself take in the sound of Stensland’s footstep following right behind him.

 

“You can take a seat on the couch. I think I’ve got a towel round here somewhere. Or a blanket maybe,” he tells Stensland as soon as the office door is closed, and if Stensland had stood just a little closer than necessary when he walked through the door Clyde held open for him it doesn’t matter, Clyde ignores the way his heart beat a little faster in his chest, busied himself trying to find something warm and dry for Stensland so he wasn’t tempted to just stare at him here, sitting on the couch in the crowded office, still bright and radiant even when dampened with rain.

 

He finally finds the blanket he keeps around for night’s when it’s so late it’s early and it just doesn’t seem worth it to go home and holds it out, watches in silence as Stensland tucks it around himself.

 

(But if Stensland were waiting for him at home, his skinny body warming the sheets until Clyde gets there he can’t imagine a night he wouldn’t come home, no matter how tired he was, no matter how miserable the road conditions outside were. It’d be worth it to go home, to lie in bed and let Stensland snuggle up against his chest, to smooth a hand down his back and whisper for him to go back to sleep when Clyde disturbed his rest.)

 

The rain has cooled the night by several degrees, a respite that won’t last but is enough that, especially combined with the air conditioner Clyde keeps running high to combat the press of bodies in a small space, it’s enough to make being damp miserable.

 

“Thank you,” Stensland murmurs, setting the coffee cup down on the table.

 

“Better?”

 

Stensland nods. “But I’d feel even better if you were on the couch with me.”

 

Clyde eases himself down, as far from Stensland as he can sit because he doesn’t know what brought Stensland back. He can hope, but it’s possible Stensland has just decided to wait until morning or until the storm clears to continue on. Clyde pointedly doesn’t notice when he shifts, just a little bit closer.

 

Clyde clears his throat, and asks the question he doesn’t want to ask. (Does want to ask. Doesn’t. He can’t bear to know. He can’t bear to _not._ ) “Not that I’m not happy to see ya, but weren’t you ‘sposed to be headed to Boston?”

 

“I decided I don’t want to go to Boston,” Stensland cofesses, low and soft.

 

Clyde swallows, twice, before he can say the next words. “Back to Seattle?”

 

Stensland shakes his head and Clyde’s breath catches when he reaches a hand out and brushes a single finger down the back of Clyde’s hand, peering up at him from under the curtain of wet hair. “I don’t, I don’t think I want to go back there either,” he admits. “I was thinking maybe, maybe I want to stay here.”

 

“In West Virginia?”

 

“ _With you,”_ he whispers, and it feels like a sunrise, bright and hot and slowly unfurling, in Clyde’s chest. “I thought, that is, _I hoped,_  that maybe you were asking me to come back. God Clyde, I don't think anyone's ever been this nice to me. You held my hand, and I know that maybe doesn't mean something to most people but it means something to me and I know it's absurd, I've promised myself I'm gonna stop rushing into stuff, but it just feels right, right? I don't, I know I don't have much to offer and that's why I left, I thought I was just hearing what I wanted to hear, but I have to try. I'll have to find a job, and I probably smoke too much pot, and I cry, like, at everything,” he admits, and between one blink and the next there are tears in Stensland's eyes. “I know I talk too much and you're probably going to yell at me to be quiet but I just, I just, I thought- _can you please say something here?_ ” He finally asks, breath coming is short little gasps as his words finally dry up.

 

“I don't mind your talking,” Clyde tells him, tugging on Stensland's hand to pull him closer. “And I only care if you're crying because I don’ want you to be sad.”

 

“ _Clyde, please,_ ” Stensland chokes out, tears finally spilling down his cheeks, but he's smiling, and Clyde’s helpless against the magnetic pull of that smile.

 

He tugs Stensland toward him, and it's too much, too fast, too uncoordinated, his nose knocks against Stensland’s and their teeth clack together and the kiss tastes like salty tears and sweet rainwater. Stensland sniffles several times trying to get air through his stuffed up nose. It's probably the worst kiss in history, nothing like the grand finales in the romantic movies they're going to watch together, but it’s perfect, _it's perfect,_ because Stensland climbs into his lap and wraps his arms around Clyde’s neck and doesn't pull away when Clyde puts his hands on his hip, one flesh and one metal, he just sighs into the kiss.

 

“Stay,” Clyde whispers. “I don't care if it's too soon, I want you to stay.”

 

And Stensland doesn't say anything, but it doesn't matter, because he burrows even closer, tucks his head against Clyde's neck and unwraps an arm to grab Clyde’s hand in his, clutching it tight.

 

_____

 

When Mellie pokes her head into the office Clyde is stretched out along the length of the couch, Stensland settled between his legs and snoring softly with his head on Clyde’s chest, the fingers of his hand still wrapped up in Clyde’s prosthetic one, and every now and then he'll bring it up to his lips and brush a kiss against the knuckles.

 

“I take it you two worked things out then?” She asks, leaning against the door jamb and smiling indulgently.

 

“Yeah, yeah I think so,” he says with a grin, smoothing a hand over Stensland’s hair, now dry and more tangled than ever.

 

“He stayin’ then?” Clyde nods. “You two gonna be happy, ya’ think? He gonna treat you good?”

 

“He holds my hand, Mel,” he whispers, raising their joined hands and then making soothing noises when the movement shuffles them just enough that Stensland grumbles in his sleep.

 

“I’m keeping your tips.”

 

“Don't care. I've got what I need.”

 

She hums, watches Clyde stroke hair out of Stensland's face and drop a kiss to his temple, a soft, contented look on his face she doesn't think she's ever seen before and turns to leave. She pauses, glances back. “Do me a favor, wouldya? When you finally decide to marry that boy, just ask.”

 

Clyde doesn't respond, doesn't point out that they've known each other less than a day and it's way too soon to even think about that. Instead he pulls Stensland impossibly closer, retucks the blanket around them, and by the time the door closes his eyes have drifted shut.

 

~End

**Author's Note:**

> THEY'RE GONNA BE SO HAPPY TOGETHER, YOU GUYS!
> 
> Thank you for making it this far with me! I really hope you enjoyed it. 
> 
> If you're curious, the songs referenced in the fic, in order of appearance, are:
> 
> -I Want To Hold Your Hand, The Beatles
> 
> -Coal Miner's Daughter, Loretta Lynn
> 
> -Country Roads, John Denver
> 
> -Can't Help Falling In Love, Elvis Presley
> 
> If you enjoyed the fic why not consider leaving a kudos or a comment? 
> 
> I'm currently working on another fic with these two, which currently stands at over 12K with no end in sight. So if you enjoyed this keep an eye out! I have no idea when that fic will be done, but I am (slowly!) chipping away at it.
> 
> Come find me on Tumblr at cut-off-the-grain.tumblr.com
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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